‘Nicholas,’ Mum repeated eventually, ‘for as long as I live –’

‘We,’ I interrupted. I knew exactly what she was going to say, but it had to come from me too. I squared up to Dad, stared straight into his eyes, an unexpected sense of relief flooding through me as I spoke for both of us: ‘For as long as we live,’ I told him, ‘neither of us wants to see you again.’

Epilogue

We flew back to London separately. Xander sorted the logistics, changing our flights and organising taxis to the airport while the rest of us packed up in a bit of a daze. He was returning to Nigeria; I’d see him back at school. Amelia, Mum and I made the trip home without Dad. Mum was furious. She spent the journey staring into the middle distance with a determined look on her face. Over the days and weeks that followed I tried to help her cope by looking like I was coping myself. Dad decided to take us literally and refused to set foot in the house. He would send someone for his things, he said. This meant Mum and I had to pack up all his belongings ready for the courier. I took charge. It was surreal to stand before his mahogany desk – I’d not even been allowed near it when I was small – and sweep the contents off its leather-inlaid top into a packing crate.

One of the objects on that desk was a little wooden elephant Mark had carved, copying as best he could one made out of actual ivory which, for as long as either of us could remember, had stood in pride of place under the brass desk lamp. Carving anything out of ivory is wrong; to make an elephant is as wrong as it gets. Mark’s wooden version was crudely done when I held the two side by side, but for a ten-year-old, the age at which he had carved it, that elephant was impressive.

I stood there turning the carving over in my fingers, transfixed. Was it a good thing that Mark died without knowing what our father was actually like, deep down? Was I better off knowing it now? For the first time since the ordeal in the Congo, the feel of that wooden elephant in my hand brought me close to tears. I put it in my pocket. The rest of the desk’s contents, the magnifying glass and letter opener, the blotter and glass paperweights – and Dad’s prized ivory elephant – I clattered into the crate. Who cared if anything got broken? Desk cleared, I dragged the box into his dressing room and rammed in his handmade suits. A couple of drawers of underclothes went in on top. Seeing the neatly pressed silk boxer shorts and paired woollen socks fall in among the jumble was curiously satisfying. Box full, I went off to find Mum.